Max sighed, came back to the table and sat down in his chair. “Pretty much no. I can’t.”
“Well then, let’s also assume for the sake of discussion that it wasn’t some random mugger, because if it was, we’ll likely never know. So we’re pretending it’s not Greg and not a mugger. And while we’re eliminating possibilities, what do you think are the odds that she just jumped?”
“Zero. She loved life. She never would have killed herself.”
“All right. So who does that leave, assuming she was murdered by someone she knew?”
Now Max leaned back in his chair, pensive. “I really hadn’t thought of it that way. You’re saying . . . what?”
“I’m saying if it wasn’t Greg, and you yourself seem to have ruled him out, and it wasn’t a mugger—why would a purse snatcher take the huge and unnecessary risk of killing her? and let’s face it, that parapet was too high for her to go over by accident—then it was probably somebody she knew and, by extension, somebody you might know about. Was she having troubles in other areas of her life? Did she have enemies? Did she talk to you about people from school, for example, or her home, or anything like that?”
“Not too much. A little. Most of the time we were together, we had fun, joked with each other. She wasn’t like all-emo all the time. Besides, wouldn’t any of that stuff . . . Isn’t that in her diary?”
“Evidently nobody serious enough for the cops to pursue, except Mr. Treadway.”
“Nothing about Honor Wilson?”
Hunt came forward. “There we go, Max. What’s the deal with Honor Wilson?”
“Well, it’s complicated, but . . .” He gave Hunt a truncated version of his
understanding of what went on at the group home with the entrepreneurial young woman who’d recruited several of the other girls into a life of prostitution. As a foster child himself, and then a worker with Child Protective Services before becoming a private investigator, Hunt thought he’d seen it all, but when Max was done with the recitation, Hunt found himself all but unable to speak.
Picking up on Hunt’s reaction, Max said, “That’s the way I felt when Anlya told me about this. Pretty appalling, isn’t it?”
“Was your sister involved in this, too?”
“Oh God, no. She was the one who tried to talk the other girls into
not
going out. That was the conflict with Honor.”
“But the other girls, they went out on the theory that this was a good life?”
Max shrugged. “They’re most of them going on eighteen and leaving the program and the home as soon as the birthday comes along. Few of them have jobs, and if they do, they’re minimum wage at best. So what’s the option? Not saying I believe that, but obviously, a lot of them do. And Honor didn’t exactly put them out on the street. She ran it more like an escort service. Or runs it. It’s probably still going on, maybe more now that Anlya’s gone.”
His mind reeling with this basic reality that had been completely off his radar—and apparently off Rebecca’s—Hunt grabbed for his mug and took a sip. “Does the woman who runs the house know about this?”
“Nellie? She might, but she’s not saying anything. Honor will be gone in a few months and most of her gang with her, and then it’ll probably stop. Unless somebody else steps up and moves into her spot. But if it’s not going on
in
the house, Nellie doesn’t want to know about it.”
“And she, Honor, came to this by herself?”
“No. I don’t think so. Anlya said she used to be like her, smart and kind of motivated. Or at least enough like her that they were friends. Then maybe a year ago she got a boyfriend, and the two of them hit on this idea where they could make some pretty good money just by being organized.”
“So the two of them take a cut from what the girls make?”
“I think so. Same as it works everywhere, I gather, except these girls aren’t on
the street. The clientele, if you want to call it that, is all by referral. Even Anlya admitted it was pretty well managed, and so far it didn’t seem like anybody was getting hurt.”
“Maybe not yet,” Hunt said, “but just wait a few years.”
“I hear you. But obviously, they’re not thinking that far ahead. To them, it’s better than being a manicurist or a grocery bagger. And who knows, for some of them it might be.”
Hunt drew a breath and shook his head in sadness at the stark reality. “So this guy,” he said. “Honor’s boyfriend, what do we know about him?”
“I know his first name is Royce, but that’s about it. I think Anlya said he might have come over from Oakland.”
“And he’s a full-time pimp? With Honor? Does he have a criminal record?”
“I don’t know any of that.”
“But you do know that Anlya was interfering with the girls working for them?”
“She was like the unofficial homework tutor and counselor to the younger girls, and I think she tried to convince them that going out with Honor wasn’t the smartest way to get ready for the grown-up world.”
“So she was trying to take business away from Honor and Royce?”
“I don’t think it was a full-time job or anything like that, but anybody who’d listen, she’d give them an earful. She got at least a couple of them to, let’s say, rethink their position. It was a little tense around the house.”
“Do you know if anything happened between Anlya and Honor in the last couple of days before she died?”
“No. Or I never heard of anything. She—Anlya—was all focused on getting the extension of benefits that I was going for.”
“Yeah, but didn’t she tell Greg—at least this is his story—that she was really uptight the night they went out, her last night? Something was bothering her, but she wouldn’t talk about it. Do you think that could have had something to do with Honor and her boyfriend?”
“It’s possible, I suppose. But let’s not forget one major thing,” Max said.
“What’s that?”
“Greg’s a liar.”
“All right,” Hunt said. “I’ll keep that in mind as we move ahead here.
And you should keep in mind that just because he’s a liar doesn’t mean he’s a killer.”
As though suddenly struck with overwhelming fatigue, Max hung his head for a moment. He sighed, then raised his eyes and checked the wall clock hanging by the stove. “What more do you want to talk about?” he asked wearily. “I really do have to go to work in a few minutes.”
“If you’ve got another five minutes, I’d like to ask you a couple of questions about your mother. Sharla, right?”
“What about her? Besides that she’s a mess.”
“Okay, but didn’t Anlya think she’d straightened out, enough so that she went and talked to her about moving back in when she turned eighteen?”
“That must have been wishful thinking. Sharla never straightened up that I saw. Or if she did, it didn’t last long. When CPS came to check her out—and she knew they were coming, so she easily could have gotten herself together for one day—she was clearly on something, the house was a pigsty. For her, it was pretty much the usual.”
“But Anlya had been seeing her, hadn’t she? She must have thought your mom was on the road to something better.”
“Maybe she thought she was. Maybe Sharla thought so, too. But then some other guy comes around . . . it was always some guy. Probably not as bad as Leon, because who could be? Whoever it would be, once they hooked up, everything revolved around him, period. And she made the worst choices in the world around men, let me tell you.”
“So who’s Leon?”
“Leon Copes. The worst of the worst. He lived with us for five awful years. Beat the shit out of Sharla, raped Anlya before Sharla finally threw him out . . . just an absolute monster.”
“Where is he now?”
“I don’t know. I heard he eventually killed somebody in a fight. Which was no big surprise. When I think about how he was, I’m kind of amazed he didn’t kill one of us first.”
“So you think your mom got hooked up with another guy like Leon, and that’s why she screwed up her chances with Anlya again?”
“That was the general pattern, yeah. She’d get in some loser’s orbit where, whatever he says, goes. Whatever he wants her to do, she does.
Even if it screws up her kids’ lives. It’s like she has no sense for who she is herself. Without her guy, she’s nothing. And then you throw in a guy like Leon or one of his clones . . .” He shook his head. “Hopeless.” But a thought struck him. “You don’t think my mom could have had anything to do with Anlya getting killed, do you?”
“I doubt it. I’m just trying to identify areas of conflict in her life, and your mother was definitely one of them. I’m thinking if Anlya tried to get between Sharla and her latest . . . maybe he’d see her as a threat to his lifestyle. He’d want to get rid of her. I don’t know. It’s admittedly a long shot. Is Sharla with somebody now?”
“As far as I know.”
“Same guy as when Anlya was coming around?”
“That’s my guess, but I’m not sure. You might ask her, if she’ll talk to you.”
“I intend to. But why wouldn’t she talk to me?”
“Because she’ll see you as a cop. She hates cops, since they’re always a threat to her men.”
“I’ll see what shakes out. Meanwhile”—Hunt gestured around the kitchen—“it looks like you landed in a pretty good place here.”
Max nodded. “My Auntie Juney. Sharla’s sister. They’re complete opposites. I’ve been super-lucky.” He let out a breath. “You know, I can’t believe all this has gone on. I just keep thinking if only Greg hadn’t had sex with her. I mean, how could he not stop himself? Even if she . . . And I thought after Leon, she wouldn’t want anything to do with . . .” The words stopped coming. He sighed a last time, looked across at Hunt. “I don’t want to toss you out, but I’ve really got to get ready for work.”
Y
AMASHIRO HAD FOLLOWED
Waverly with essentially the same testimony, just enough variation that Rebecca could not object to the evidence as cumulative—their identification of the victim, the call from Greg Treadway at the Little Shamrock, the meeting at Everett Middle School, and so on. Rebecca had halfheartedly tried to get into the perceived shortcuts of the investigation, as she had with Waverly; not unexpectedly, Bakhtiari cut her off after a brief foray. She decided not to push it.
Now, after a short afternoon recess, Fred Liu raised his right hand and swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Phil Braden, the walking cast on his right leg, gave Liu a few seconds to get comfortable in the witness chair, to look at the courtroom and get his bearings, to glance at the jury and the gallery and the defense table, where Rebecca sat with her father and her client.
Neatly dressed in a tie and sport coat, Liu faced Braden head-on with an air of happy expectation, almost as though it were he who’d be doing the questioning. Braden gave him a welcoming smile and started in. “Mr. Liu, what is your profession?”
“I’m the maître d’ at the Imperial Palace, a restaurant in Chinatown.”
“And were you at that job on the evening of May seventh, earlier this year?”
“I was. I worked the whole day. Dim sum in the morning and then dinner at night.”
“On that night, did you see anyone in the restaurant whom you see in court today?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Would you tell us please where he is in the courtroom and what he’s wearing?”
Without any hesitation, Liu pointed directly at Treadway. “He’s the man at that table in the blue suit, seated next to the lady.”
“May the record reflect that he has identified the defendant, Your Honor,” Braden said.
“So ordered.”
“Where was the defendant when you first saw him that night?”
“He was seated at table number nine in the corner with an African-American girl.” Liu then identified a photo of Anlya as the defendant’s companion that night.
“Was there a reason why you remembered this couple particularly?”
“Several reasons. First, it was not a crowded night. We only had eight, maybe ten, parties at the other tables. They requested to sit back in a corner off by themselves. But mostly, I became aware of them after they’d been there a while, since they appeared to be having an argument. I went to pour water at their table a few times, hoping it would slow down the escalation, but that didn’t work.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, it was clear they were having a serious argument.”
Rebecca considered objecting to the word “serious” as a conclusion, if for no other reason than to throw off the rhythm of the interrogation. Fred Liu was far too comfortable up there for her taste. She knew she’d be overruled and decided to let it go.
Liu went on, “They just waved me away as I approached. And then at the end, the woman made an angry noise and stood up so abruptly that she knocked her chair over and rushed out of the restaurant.”
“She rushed out on her own?”
“Yes. The man stayed behind to get the check.”
“And did you give the check to him?”
“Yes.”
“So you interacted with him close up?”
“Yes.”
“And did you later identify him from a group of photos shown to you by inspectors?” The six-pack signed by Liu was duly marked and admitted into evidence.
“Mr. Liu, is there any doubt in your mind that you saw this defendant
and the woman whose photo you identified, arguing in your restaurant the night of May seventh?”
“No. No doubt at all.”
So far, the testimony didn’t present much of a problem for Rebecca. After all, Greg had always admitted that he’d gone to the Imperial Palace with Anlya and they’d had dinner there. But she knew that the most disturbing stuff was just ahead.
“Mr. Liu,” Braden continued, “before the fighting escalated and before the young woman left the restaurant, did this couple appear to you to have a romantic relationship?”
So quickly that she surprised herself, Rebecca was on her feet, objecting. “Mr. Liu’s characterization of what their relationship might have been is pure speculation, Your Honor.”
Braden, knowing he’d turned the tables on Rebecca by drawing an objection that would only focus the jury’s attention on an area he considered important, could not completely suppress a smile.
“Overruled,” Bakhtiari said. “You can go into that on cross, counsel.”
Braden barely hesitated. “Did you witness these two people holding hands during their dinner?”